Building an Escape Route
by Team Bonet
Summary: This story follows Jim Hawkins, from eight to fourteen, as he builds and modifies his solar surfer, with varying degrees of success. Chapter 3 now up!
1. Spring

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Building an Escape Route

****

Spring

The Deuterium Junk and Scrap Yard stood at the far bend of the road. It loomed out of the early morning mists and above a small, grey shack belonging to Mr. And Mrs. Deuterium, both of them non-assuming, yet enterprising solar beetles. They gathered anything and everything at their junkyard, often scavenging along the outer perimeters of Montressor in order to salvage bits and pieces from downed weather satellites or clipper ships or mining vessels or the occasional abandoned personal transport. With their treasures secured atop their broad, smooth backs, they would scuttle home to draw up inventories, then step back and admire their growing pile, their mountain of refuse. 

Jim felt very guilty for stealing from them. 

Panting, his spine tingling under the growing fear of getting caught, he came to a stop at a sheltered dip in the road. A bright red wagon hovered behind him. A rope had been tied to its front and trailed out, slung over his shoulder. The wagon was old, and had long ago stopped being reliable once outfitted with more than twenty pounds. He figured he wouldn't need more than twenty pounds, but one never knew. 

It was early spring, and Jim knew—from the mutterings of Dr. Delbert Doppler, who had recently given up his old heater and sent it to be scrapped—that Mr. And Mrs. Deuterium were on vacation. The junkyard was empty, save for a six-legged guard sverm. Sverm's were bright purple and three feet tall and four feet long and leathery and quick and inclined towards the ferocious and this worried Jim somewhat. Swallowing over a parched throat, he set his shoulders. 

__

If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do this now. He set his shoulders straighter. _Now. Not tomorrow, now. _A snort from the sverm rose into the still, morning air. Jim's shoulders sagged noticeably, but with a shake of his head he straightened them up again. Gripping the rope, every fiver of his eight-year-old body filling with determination, he made his way down the road. 

The junkyard rose up before him, large and dark and forbidding. Tall mounds of plasma toaster ovens and twisted copper lanterns, bent coach wheels, solar powered lawn mowers, and the occasional, rusted parlour lamp clumped together, joined by thick puddles of stagnant rain water. Shrouded in mist, it seemed to be breathing, shifting and settling within itself. Jim was glad for the mist. It might offer a cover from the sverm. Or it might be a cover _for _the sverm. He decided not to think about that. 

On his hands and knees, he crawled towards the back gate. The wagon hovered behind him like an over eager accomplice, bumping against his shoulder. Jim pushed it away and began to scratch at the soft, loose dirt under the gate. He was small and skinny for his age. He was sure he could fit through even the smallest hole he could dig. The dirt was squishy and wet under the surface, and soon Jim had hollowed out enough space to squeeze his head and shoulders through. The rest would be easy. 

Once he had wriggled his way under the gate, his face and shirt now streaked with mud, he continued to crawl forward. His spine seemed inordinately large, sensitive to the weight of guilt and fear Jim could feel crawling up his legs. But he pushed forward. He knew what he wanted. Stopping, he looked left and right, searching for the landmark he had noted last week, when he had first spied out the junkyard.

__

There it is. 

A bright yellow land cruiser lay flat on its stomach, its rudder sticking up into the air in a twisted mass of worm eaten wood. Beside it, almost hidden by a chrome sink, was a long, flat board. Jim smiled. It was a sand board, like the kind the big boys used at school. At recess, they would race out towards the artificial dunes set up in the park and swoop and holler and glide and twist in the air and they would sometimes twist so high they seemed to touch the sky. To fly. Jim wanted to do that. But he couldn't afford a sand board. Until now.

With extreme care, teeth firmly clamped over his lower lip, he resumed his slow crawl forward. Pressing his back flat against the land cruiser, he listened for any signs of the sverm. Silence, broken only by a faint, double throated snore. Jim closed his eyes and sighed out his relief through clenched teeth. Squatting, he placed his hands under the sand board. All he had to do was slide it out, inch by inch by agonizing inch by sweat standing out on his brow inch. 

It finally came loose with a tiny shower of splinters. The back had been snapped off. Jim smiled at the sight, already envisioning how he could patch it up, plans and diagrams running through his head. Setting the board down, he slid it across the ground. A loud rasp rang out as wood slid over dirt. 

Jim froze. 

A few seconds spun themselves out, slowly. The hair at the back of Jim's neck tingled, and he became aware, acutely, of how bare his long legs were, covered only by rolled up shorts and sandals and nothing else. Jim shuddered. He tried to shift the board onto his back. He could crawl forward with it on top of him. He'd make a great deal less noise. 

__

Please let the sverm not have heard that. Please. I'll never crawl in here again if that sverm'll just lie quietly, sleeping. Over at his side. Not here. Not here not here not here not here. His heart and his prayer became one, thumping rhythmically inside his head. Both skipped a beat when his hand came up against a bony, leathery obstacle. A single blast of hot, pungent breath blew out above Jim's head.

The sverm leaned down slowly, haunches dipping towards the ground, long, pointed purple snout stretching out towards Jim. The boy held his breath. His eyes had widened, his pulse seeming both to speed up and disappear at once. Before the sverm had begun to fully rumble out his double-throated growl, Jim had let out a yelp of fear and alarm. The sverm opened its mouth, a deep, gravely noise rushing out. 

Scampering onto his feet, Jim tore off. Somehow, miraculously, he still held the sand board in his hands. _I must be crazy!_ He tightened his grip on it and stumbled forward in a blind rush. His feet pumped out beneath him, pulling him forward. Behind him, he could hear the sverm's nails kicking up loose dirt, its cry now an incessant noise. It sounded like a hammer over nails. Jim whimpered and pushed forward, his throat burning, adrenaline firing up every nerve end. 

The gate came into view from an angle, twisted as Jim rounded a corner, the board scrapping along the ground. With a curse, Jim realized an extra piece had snapped off. The next instant, he had slammed into the linked fence. He shook his head and looked back. The sverm had come to a stop, growling. Jim closed his eyes and flung up the sand board. He heard it clatter down on the other side, but he couldn't feel any triumph. The sverm was still there, still growling, still pulling back its lips over three rows of sharp teeth.

__

It can't be legal to own that thing.

With growing panic, Jim looked around. Anything he could get his hands on was too far away. He had no weapon. His head hung down, a blinding sense of futility threatening to engulf him. His sandals stared up at him. _Sandals. _Without stopping to think, Jim pulled them off. He held one above his head and aimed at the sverm's nose. 

"Hey!" he called out. "Ugly! Chew on this!" 

The first sandal hit the sverm along the mouth. The next missed him completely. But in that one instant in which the beast's attention was held by them, Jim turned and grasped the linked fence. He clambered up without a backwards glance, waiting for the moment when the sverm would reach out. He could almost feel its teeth, snapping, tearing. 

Pulling himself up onto the top of the fence, stomach pressed against it, one leg looking for a frantic purchase along its length, he felt the fence shudder beneath him. The sverm had rushed forward, throwing its entire weight against the fence. Jim saw the ground below, flat and open and distant. A good thirteen feet fall. Fear shot up his spine. But he had no other choice. As the sverm flung itself against the fence for a second time, Jim allowed his body to drop. 

He wasn't sure when he hit the ground. It all happened much too fast and then it had all just blacked out. 

* * *

"...blame myself."

Sunlight filtered beneath Jim's eyelids, and he struggled to open his eyes. His room came into focus gradually, the ceiling blurring and settling with nauseating slowness. Jim became dimly aware of his mother's presence, her voice bouncing inside his subconscious. She was by the door, talking to someone. The faint smell of lavender after shave and musk and old parchment drifted in. It was Doppler. 

"No need to blame yourself, Sarah," he was saying, his voice light and airy. "Boys will be boys."

"He could've been killed," Sarah said. Her voice sounded strained. "I don't know what I would've done if Mrs. Linden hadn't driven by and..." She broke off. Jim watched as she covered her eyes, and he felt the earlier guilt settle down on him again. 

"Mom," he called out. His voice escaped as a groggy whisper.

Almost at once, his mother's arms were around him, her kisses raining down on top of his head. _Jim _she said, over and over_. _Jim burrowed against her chest and allowed her to mess up his hair. Doppler's voice, straining for decorum but no less excited, hovered above them. 

"You see? He's as fine and whole as a solid chemical compound. Perfectly all right." He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at Jim. "You gave your mother quite a scare, young man." He straightened, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But, there, and now you're quite all right and nothing seems to be broken."

Broken. 

Jim sat up, his mother's arms still around his shoulders. "The sand board!" he said. "Did I manage to save the sand board?" 

Doppler lifted up a fungus-encrusted piece of wood, missing several inches at the back and sprayed with flaking mud. He pinched its upper edge between stiff, disgusted fingers. "You mean this ...this _thing_?"

Sarah ran a hand through Jim's tousled hair. "Mrs. Linden found it beside you. She thought it belonged to you."

Reaching out for it, Jim ran his fingers down its worn, dirty side. "It does," he said. "It's going to be mine."

A knowing smile tugged at Sarah's lips. "Oh?"

"Yeah, mom. This is gonna be my sky surfer."

* * *

"He stands alone. Ready. He's been waiting for this moment all his life. You can tell he's focused, deadly focused. If he pulls this off, he'll be the champion. Gold medal."

Shifting his feet, Jim straightened his newly polished sky board flat against the top of the Old Benbow Inn's roof. He had painted the new additions bright blue, the old board a deep purple. Fixing it had been a matter of sawing off the splintered back and gluing on new boards, which he had sanded into a curved shape. He didn't know how well the glue would hold—the package promised industrial strength—but he wouldn't really know until he tested it out.

Sarah's voice drifted up to him from below. "Jim. What are you doing?"

"Nothing, mom," he called, watching as the front tip of his board pointed towards the edge of the roof. It wasn't a steep fall, and Jim anticipated guiding the board towards their docking strip, maybe bringing it down on the smooth ground below. He grinned. "Just watching the sky."

His mother was silent for a moment. Her voice sounded resigned when she finally spoke. "Be careful."

With that, she disappeared into the inn and Jim almost hugged himself with excitement. Flipping a pair of bright yellow goggles over his eyes, he braced one leg against the roof. "The sky surfing legend, James "The Flare" Hawkins, prepares for this one, all important run. The crowd is practically fainting from the anticipation." Jim pushed himself forward with narrowed, steely eyes. "They won't be disappointed."

Wind whistled up to greet him, pushing back his bangs, fluttering out the ponytail at the back of his neck. He felt excitement building, the roof rushing up and around and behind him in a colourless streak. Jim could just make out the edge of the roof in front of him, clear and stark against the blue sky, still in a world of dizzying motion. Trembling from the speed and the somewhat uneven surface, Jim steeled himself for the takeoff. 

The world seemed to slow down. For one moment, he hung, suspended. Gravity seemed to have no effect on him, sounds stripped away, the world reduced to a blinding white light of giddiness and triumph. Jim looked up at the bright blue sky and felt a smile stretching out across his face. He was flying. He was really flying. 

He was falling. 

In a panic, Jim realized gravity had settled back in, pushing him down. Frantically, he tried to twist the board around, catch a wind current, any current. The board wouldn't respond. All it managed to do was dip a bit towards the left. As Jim saw this, he knew it was over. His balance gave out and the board slid out from underneath his feet. For a few seconds, as the ground and the sky switched places, Jim thought he could walk on air. The next instant, he was plummeting down, his arms rising to cover his face. 

He crash-landed onto a patch of flowers his mother kept by the inn's entry path, dust and mud and pollen rising all about him. The goggles had been knocked away from his face, and they lay in a crumpled heap by his head. The board thudded down a few feet away, driving itself firmly into the ground. Its new piece clattered off, the glue giving way. Jim gazed at it in silence for a while, his body just beginning to itch and burn from various cuts and scratches and a bruise he could feel growing along his elbow. 

With a sigh, he looked up at the roof. He had flown a mere six feet above the ground, probably in a straight line down. Pathetic. Jim closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall back against the soft, pungent earth.

Author's Note:

26 February 2003. The idea for this story came to me while I was attempting to remain awake during an LIS 203 Cataloguing lecture [bleary hellos to anyone from St. John's University]. I started doodling out little Jims on solar surfers, and soon I was mapping out what eventually became this story. 

In the movie, Sarah tells Doppler that Jim built his first solar surfer when he was eight. This story is what I envision as the first sparks of that idea, hence the non-solar sky board. 

Chapter 2, "Summer, Four Years Later," is now up.

© 25 February 2003 Team Bonet. _Treasure Planet _is © 2002 The Walt Disney Co. The characters of Jim and Sarah Hawkins are © 1881 Robert Louis Stevenson. 


	2. Summer, Four Years Later

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Building an Escape Route

Summer – Four Years Later

The sun was a bright tear in the sky, blurry and uneven as it directed its rays towards Montressor's every rock and plant and luckless inhabitant alike. Stretched out on the Old Benbow's roof, Jim shaded his eyes and muttered a few colourful curses at the heat, safe in the knowledge that his mother was too busy downstairs to hear. It was his lunch break—a few minutes into twelve o'clock—and he had crawled out onto the roof to eat a bowl of purps by himself, away from the inn's customers and their insistence that, because he worked there, he spend even his lunch hour serving them. 

He had clambered out with another purpose as well. 

Stretched out to his right, held in place by four heavy stones—one for each corner—lay a solar sail. A bright yellow solar sail. His pride and joy. Scavenging along the canyons that stretched out to the south of the Benbow, he had come across two solar surfers in varying stages of crash landing, misuse, and general abandonment. He had carted them home without a shred of guilt, hauling them up the stairs to his room in a clatter of bumps and skids and whistled snatches of song. They were his most prized possession, even with their missing booster rockets and their damaged pedals and their rust and their peeling paint. 

The sails were the most satisfying part. Stretched out to their full length, they measured a good seven by five feet. Because they were not constructed of scaling, solar plates, it was just a matter of sewing and cannibalistic patching in order to bring the fabric back to a serviceable whole. The only remaining problem was charging them up. 

Jim had flipped open a newspaper that morning, with an hour to go before breakfast would be served to the first customers of the day. The sharp, acrid smell of eggs and purps and swürtzberry and pancakes and fried Acadian potatoes wound its way across the Benbow as Jim sat hunched at his place, absentmindedly forking waffle squares into his mouth and combing the newspaper's advertisements. Flexible whalebone corsets, Magic Rub stain remover, lunar clock repairmen, hover-bicycles for the busy family of five, solar equipment. 

"Here we are," he muttered, folding the paper in two. He ran his finger along the flashy, empty words of the ad and stopped at the listed price. His face fell. Six hundred and ninety-five credits for a new solar battery pack. Jim's entire allowance, so impressive last time he had counted it out, amounted to forty-three credits, all in coin. Deflated, he pushed the newspaper away. 

It wasn't until his mother had switched on the air-conditioner and flipped on her customer wooing sign, _Air conditioning inside! Come in from the heat,_ that Jim got his idea. There were record-breaking temperatures outside. Enough sunlight to stock the town's generators for the coming winter and possibly till next spring as well. Surely enough sunlight to charge up one measly seven by five feet solar sail. 

So it was done. Jim turned his head and gave the sails a loving smile. A hot, finicky wind picked at them, and they rustled slightly, as if sharing in Jim's enthusiasm. He had to shade his eyes from the glare they produced. But even after they had left nothing but bright green, fuzzy triangles in his eyes, he still loved them. He couldn't wait to try them out.

"And," he murmured to the sky, "find myself a suitable booster rocket." 

* * *

A crash and a yowl of pain greeted Jim as he knocked on Dr. Doppler's door. It was 9.32 in the evening. The inn had closed for the night, and Sarah had sent Jim to Doppler's with a covered casserole of warm leftovers. 

"The poor man starves himself up at that observatory of his," Sarah said. "And what's the use of letting good food go to waste?"

Jim didn't mind running the errand. It gave him a chance to be outside, where he could keep an eye out for any discarded hardware. As he heard the crash and the doctor's cry, he pushed open the door—always left unlocked in the statistically safe upper-class neighbourhood Doppler lived in—and peered inside. A cloud of thick grey smoke blew out to meet him, lined with the sharp, chemical smell of packing crates and new plastics. Jim coughed. 

Doppler's voice drifted out. "Jim? Is that you?" A thump and a scuttle followed the words. The doctor emerged from the cloud of smoke, wafting away at the grey tendrils with one hand, attempting to wipe his glasses clean with the other. He peered at Jim for a few seconds, large eyes blinking behind his glasses. 

The boy stood awkwardly, one leg rising to scratch at the back of his calf. He wore the white tunic and knee-length breeches of a kitchen help, made his own by a short, light blue jacket, rolled up to the elbows, and a pair of scuffed, black mules. His hair was a bit too long for the doctor's tastes, hanging down to the boy's shoulders, but at least the child had the decorum to hold it back in a ponytail. His bangs appeared to be in an eternal state of mussed morning hair. 

Satisfied at length that the boy before him was indeed Jim, Doppler straightened. "Well then, it _is_ you," he announced, grandly. "What brings you to my humble yet currently quite un-presentable abode?"

Jim held out the casserole, which Doppler took with a great show of delight. As he carefully removed the lid, taking in deep, noisy breaths as he sniffed out the contents, Jim's attention was caught by the packing crate standing in the centre of Doppler's living room. It lay tipped on its side, a crowbar wedged along the top and several boards lying scattered about the floor. Jim noticed one had a rather nasty nail sticking out of it, and he imagined this had been the cause of Doppler's yowls. But why all the smoke?

The doctor noticed Jim's curiosity. He set the casserole down on top of a newspaper-laden coffee table and picked his way among the boards. He patted the top of the crate with a brisk little twitch of his wrist and seemed inordinately proud of whatever was in there. A smile had stretched out across his face, accentuating his many wrinkles at the same time that it made him appear younger. 

"This, my young Jim, is a marvellous invention." He paused for effect, his chest puffing out under his bright green dressing gown. "It is a hygrothermograph."

When no reaction greeted his words, Doppler's shoulders slumped. Jim could do nothing but blink and scratch the top of his head. He slid a gaze at the crate again, trying to make out what was inside. It looked square and big and cumbersome. It certainly didn't look marvellous. Still, he didn't really want to hurt Doppler's feelings.

"That's, um, great," he said weakly. 

Doppler straightened with the sniff of the wounded. "Well, it _is _great. This hygrothermograph is going to regulate the temperature and humidity of my personal, astrophysics archives. I'm afraid several nasty and perturbing things are starting to develop consciousness in there, what with all the mould. I can't think why I didn't get a hygrothermograph before now. It's disgraceful." 

As he spoke, he took up the crowbar again, ripping away several new boards. With a grunt and a heave that sent him sprawling, he finally removed the last one. Jim bent down and looked into the box. The hygrothermograph was indeed square and big and quite possibly cumbersome. He grinned as he envisioned the doctor dragging it towards his archival library. He was willing to bet several of the doctor's many personal knick-knacks would be knocked aside, shattered, bent, and squashed. 

"Well, Jim," the doctor said now, picking himself up from the floor. "Now you've seen it, I hope you're more suitably impressed."

"Yeah, doc," he said. "Every boy should have one of these." 

The doctor directed a dry, humourless chuckle towards the boy's sarcasm and crossed the living room. He disappeared into an adjoining room, where the sounds of cabinets being opened and closed began to drift out. Doppler's voice drifted out soon after. 

"Before you leave, my boy, would you mind doing me a small favour?"

Left alone, Jim had uncovered his mother's casserole and helped himself to a hearty spoonful. At the sound of Doppler's words, he swallowed quickly and replaced the lid. Wiping away the evidence from his lips, he garbled out an affirmative to Doppler's question. He fervently hoped it had nothing to do with hauling that hygro-thing around. 

"I've left a crate by the door," the doctor continued. "It's an old lawn mower I'm sending to the Deuterium's junkyard. The booster's shot, I'm afraid. So much for its so-called ninety-day warranty. It's downright flabbergasting, how many downright pernicious lies some vendors are willing to saddle on the unwary, uninitiated buyer. Preposterous. Simply preposterous!"

The doctor's rant continued in varying degrees of volume, but Jim hadn't heard a single word. Only one word had stood out, bouncing along Jim's head with growing giddiness: booster. Jim ran a hand over the lawn mower's crate and smiled. He could kiss Doppler. Bless him and his hygrothermograph. 

A crash rang out, accentuated by the sound of shattering china, and before Doppler's cursing had reached truly floral proportions, Jim had shouldered the crate and had backed out the door.

* * *

A brisk wind whistled across the canyon, racing along the ground as it raised a thin red cloud of pebbles and dead grass and dust. Jim stood at the edge of the canyon's lip, gazing down. The canyon spread out into wide curves and bends below him, pathways from an invisible river dipping and curving as they swelled up or flattened out, stretching out into the horizon. Jim could just make out the roof of the Benbow in the hazy, sun drenched distance. 

It was the weekend. No school. His twelfth birthday. Permission from mom to go out and enjoy himself and then come home to cake and his present. Jim smiled. He had already fashioned out his own present. It stood behind him, bright yellow sails straining in the wind, polished silver body reflecting the harsh summer light, poised and ready for its triumphant voyage. 

It had taken Jim two full weeks to coax Doppler's booster back to health. It was now strapped onto the back of the surfer, operational by means of a single pedal. The surfer's original back pedals, meant for the extraction and retraction of the solar sails, were no longer operational. But this suited Jim. Although he would first swallow a bucketful of fur snails than admit it, he knew he wasn't ready yet to pilot the surfer without sails. That would come later, after his first few test runs with this bright yellow prototype. 

Climbing aboard, he inhaled sharply. The booster had three speeds. Earlier, he had coasted easily along the canyon's bottom, the booster firing at its slowest speed, performing admirably well for the heart of a lawn mower. Jim intended to increase to its second speed now, just to get him off the ground and clear the tops of the canyon's edges. Then he'd switch to the third speed. He gripped the safety bar circling the sails tightly. His knuckles had gone white. 

Battling down a growing sense of apprehension, Jim placed his foot against the pedal. Carefully, he oriented the tip of the surfer towards the edge of the lip, measuring the distance between himself and the nearest outcropping of rock. Give or take two hundred feet. He could clear it. With a murmured prayer, he brought his foot down firmly on the pedal. 

The wind was knocked out of him. One instant, he was still. The next, he was streaking forward, everything blurring into red and pink and white. Dust slapped into his face, a few pebbles striking his cheeks. Battling to keep his balance, he straightened, his hands gripping the safety bar for dear life. The solar sails fluttered out beside him in a shivering flash of sunlight. Dipping, Jim caught an air current. With a growing grin, he watched as they plumped out, straining against the wind and the speed. 

The motion steadied the surfer somewhat. Blurred landscapes began to take on forms and shapes, racing past at a brisk pace. Jim could feel his heart begin to beat faster. Shifting his weight, he nudged the surfer to the left. It responded with a fluid, graceful motion, and it was all Jim could do not to burst out in tears. It was really happening this time. He had made it. 

He circled about a few times before he decided his body was ready for the speed increase. Bracing himself against the new blast, he jammed his foot down on the pedal. His hair blew out behind him, slapping at his back and coming free from its ponytail. The canyon became a blur once more. Only this time it wasn't frightening at all. It was a rush. A pure, unadulterated rush. Swooping, Jim turned a corner, delighting in the way the surfer responded to his movements, almost as if it were an extension of him and they were both one with the rock faces. Closing his eyes, he let out a loud, long shout of joy. 

It echoed back towards him at the same time he felt the sails go slack. Eyes wide in disbelief, he watched as the telltale silvery colour of the solar charge drained away, the sails no longer responding to the wind or Jim's frantic manoeuvres. Almost at the same time, he remembered the booster. It was still firing at full speed. He'd crash once the sails fully slacked. In a rush of barely controlled panic, he reached back for it with his foot, frantically jamming his boot down on the pedal. 

The action, abrupt and clumsy, brought the surfer to a sudden, jerky stop. In one fluid movement, it pitched forward, sails folding over it, booster guiding it straight towards the ground, Jim shooting forward in a huddle of arms and legs and a scream that seemed to go on and on and on.

He tasted blood as he rolled to a standstill on the ground. Every nerve along his body burned, his palms raw and bleeding, a gash running up his right leg. He felt blood on his cheek, and he reached up towards his eyes, panicked. Everything seemed to be shifting before his vision. The blue sky and the red canyon and the brown dirt broke up into little squares of colour, blurring away, replaced by a shrill hum that echoed inside Jim's head. Alarm shot up his spine and he closed his eyes.

__

Breathe, Jim. Just breathe. 

Slowly, the shock wore away. It left Jim feeling limp and broken and embarrassed. Tears burned on his cheeks and he cursed. His feet shook as he pulled himself up. It was a while before he could steady himself. Bringing up his hands, he covered first one eye, then the next. Nothing wrong there. He felt for all of his teeth, found blood along his gums, but nothing cracked or loose or missing. As he ran his itching palms over his face, he felt the blood on his cheek again. He could feel a gash there, running just below his cheekbone. He hissed as his fingers came in contact with it. 

__

I must look like a mess. 

With a spasm of sadness and regret, he saw the remains of the surfer. The booster had clattered off, still rolling as it lay on its side. The front had been bent out of shape, the safety bar twisted and snapped. And the sails. The sails hung in tattered rips, impaled by the safety bar, fluttering in the wind. Bright yellow. 

With a sigh, Jim looked up at the impassive blue skies. Overhead, wheeling about in the wind, a stray mantabird swooped and cried out. It beat its wings against the sun and then dipped out of sight, leaving Jim alone. 

Author's Note: 

28 February 2003. Not much to say this time around. Only one thing. Hygrothermographs do in fact exist. They are equipment used by archives in order to measure temperature and humidity and air quality. In short, exactly what Dr. Doppler said. This story was, after all, born during LIS [Library Information Science] lectures, so it was only fitting that library equipment pop up for a cameo. 

Chapter 3, "Fall, Two Years Later," is now up! Took me long enough...   


© 28 February 2003 Team Bonet. Treasure Planet is © 2002 The Walt Disney Co. The characters of Jim and Sarah Hawkins are © 1881 Robert Louis Stevenson. 


	3. Fall, Two Years Later

****

Building an Escape Route

Fall - Two Years Later

The siren slid up behind him in a whirl of shrill whines and whistles, bright red light pushing its way into Jim's view at the same time that a modulated, mechanical voice requested that he kindly pull over. With an exasperated sigh and one quick, expert jab down on the back pedals, Jim reduced the speed of his solar surfer, bringing it to a complete, sullen stop. Folding his arms over the safety bar, Jim slumped forward, waiting. 

The police-bot rolled into view with calculated slowness, its wheels crunching over loose gravel. Jim didn't even bother to raise his head. He already knew what the police officer was going to say, found himself mimicking the words even as the robot droned them out with infinite patience. 

"Can you tell me why I've asked you to stop?" 

Jim glanced straight ahead, head resting on his folded arms, his voice low but clear. Resigned. "Doing a measly fifty mph in a thirty mph zone." 

"And how many times have I asked you to stop for this very same reason?" 

"Three." 

The police-bot straightened. "Precisely," it droned. From a slit just below its badge—No. 679—it emitted a small, pink coloured slip of paper. A shrill little beep signalled the completion of this task, and the police-bot ripped out the slip. One finger folded back, replaced by a pen. It did all of this in one fluid motion, its gaze never leaving the back of Jim's head. 

For his part, Jim was already tired of the entire ordeal. The first time had filled him with guilt. The second had made him nervous and courteous in a sullen, put-upon kind of way. The third time was just making him feel apathetic. Before he could figure out exactly what he was saying, he had muttered a few words, his breath hot against his cheeks. 

"Maybe you'll get a promotion when you catch me a fourth time." 

A rough metal hand grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, forcing him to turn around. He found himself staring into his own face, reflected in the robot's dark aviator shades. The police-bot's drone clicked out in a slow, threatening cadence. "Don't add contempt for my office to your list of offences." 

Jim struggled to pull away, his eyebrows knitting together in a frown. Words kept stumbling out, unreal and alarming even as he thought them up and spit them out into the police officer's face. "I'll keep that in mind." 

"What was that?" 

The police-bot's hold tightened. A flash of anger raced across Jim's face, but he knew that he was pushing it. The robot had already printed out a speeding ticket. Jim knew it would make good on its threat to slap him with an extra fine for insubordination. Frowning, embarrassed, he allowed his body to hang limply, submissive. 

"Nothing, sir," he muttered. 

He averted his eyes as the police-bot shoved him back down in one rough flick of its wrist. It held out the pink coloured slip. Jim took it without a word, stuffing it into his pant's front pocket.

"That is for your mother," the police-bot whirred. "She is to pay it within twenty days." 

Having said that, it suddenly stooped and hooked its hands underneath and around the solar surfer. Jim had to jump out of the way, stumbling as the police officer lifted the surfer and, after efficiently folding and storing away its solar sail, tucked it under one large arm. Without another word, it turned to go.

Jim felt anger flare up once again. "Hey! What are doing?!"

He stumbled after the police-bot, his eyes never leaving the surfer as it jutted out from beneath the robot's arm. It seemed limp and defeated, ridiculously homemade and shoddy. The officer rolled forward at a brisk pace, oblivious to Jim's protests and curses and rude gestures. It flicked open the door of its police car and dumped the surfer in the back. The board clattered against the seat, slumping down in a crooked, undignified angle. 

"This vehicle is now under the custody of the Benbow Police Department until such time as a responsible adult is willing to claim it back for you." 

In a whirr and click of gears, the police-bot leaned down, its face level with Jim's. Once more, Jim saw only his own face glaring back at him, flushed and pinched and ugly. The officer's voice was mechanical and cold and final. 

"I emphatically hope no one will be foolish enough to do that for you."

* * *

Jim stepped out of the police station with slow, seething steps. His hands were buried deep into the pockets of his jacket, balled into fists, his lips drawn out into a thin, sullen line. Behind him, he could hear the cheerful, affable voice of Dr. Doppler. Jim was willing to bet the doctor was waving goodbye to the police-bots, large fingers wiggling in the air as if everyone were the best of friends. Jim let out one long, exasperated sigh. 

"Pleasure doing business with you," the doctor was saying. "I sincerely apologize again for this great inconvenience. It shan't happen twice." The police clerk droned out one tart, crisp sentence. Doppler coughed and edited his pleasantries. "It shan't happen a fourth time. No, no indeed. Not even a fifth time."

As he reached Jim's side—a few more goodbyes and apologies called out towards the police station—Doppler held out the solar surfer. Jim took it in silence, his fingers trailing over its wooden surface, checking for any damage. He found none. He decided he hated the police-bots even more for that. They had probably just tossed it in a corner, like so much garbage. 

Doppler let out a delicate cough. "Well then, young man, that's your solar surfer returned to you and one 105 credits speeding ticket paid off on Sarah's behalf." His tone, so cheerful and pleasant before, had dropped several octaves. His expression was closed and pinched. 

"I hope you realize that I _will _inform your mother about this," he lectured, firm and humourless. "Fourteen years old and chalking up speeding charges. I must say I'm very disappointed in you, Jim. Sarah doesn't deserve this."

Jim shrugged. He just wanted to get home. Alone. With a muttered _thanks _tossed out in Doppler's direction, he walked away from the doctor. His back felt exposed, naked, the doctor's eyes drilling into the back of his head. But even as he felt the guilt, his anger rose to blanket over it, shutting out everything but the dull clump of his boots against the cobblestones.

__

Clump thump clump.

Houses and streets and shops came and went, trailing out from beside the gutter. Jim walked with his head hung low, till his neck ached from the strain. He pushed on. His fingers had tightened around his surfer, the wood smooth and solid under his skin. He had completed it a month ago, crowning it with a set of twin booster rockets. They had cost him an entire year's allowance. Second-hand. Bought off Mr. and Mrs. Deuterium and their aging, mottled guard sverm. 

__

Damned police-bots. They've got nothing better to do than arrest lousy teenage boys going a stupid twenty miles faster than the speed limit along a friggin' deserted road. Damn them. 

Stopping, he looked up. He found himself staring back at his own reflection, frowning at him from between a rack of hot rolls and flat, round bread. He stood in a slump, shoulders jutting up, feet shuffling out. His bangs hung over his eyes, the back of his head shaved clean. A thin ponytail hung at the nape of his neck, braided with string and beads. A faint scar ran along his right cheekbone. His clothes hung on him, several sizes too big, belted tight and creased and soiled from nearly constant use. His eyes were dull, sunk into deep sockets, dirty blue and apathetic and Jim couldn't bear to look at himself any longer. 

As he turned his head away, his eyes caught a sign. It swayed slightly in the crisp, cold breeze, attached to a larger, wooden board. _Jeweller. Special today. One free pair of earrings with piercing. Second pair 50% off. _

The notion hit Jim with a vengeance. _Well why not? _He had ten credits on him. Enough to pay for the piercing, and the earrings were free. A little gift to himself, to make up for the rotten day. _Why not? _Jim set his shoulders, shifting his surfer under his arm. He had crossed the street and pushed open the door and called for the clerk and asked for the special before the thought had any time to question itself. 

* * *

"James Pleiades Hawkins!"

Jim cringed. He stood at the Benbow's sink, an apron tied around his waist, up to his elbows is sudsy water and dirty breakfast dishes and greasy pots. He could feel the weight of his mother's stare, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He had completely forgotten about the earring. His mother hadn't noticed it last night, when he had stomped in and gone directly to his room. There was also the matter of the 105 credit speeding ticket. Jim felt his shoulders slump, but he struggled to keep his pose nonchalant.

"Mom, don't get upset," he said. The words sounded lame. 

Sarah ran a hand through her hair, pushing back at her bangs. Anger and helplessness mingled in her expression. "Upset? Jim, I think I'm beyond upset." She crossed the kitchen, picking up a tray as she went, never stopping in her duties as hostess even though she was angry. "Doppler stopped by before you came home and told me the police had taken your surfer and that you'd gotten a ticket. No need to worry, he said, I already paid the ticket." Sarah closed her eyes, pushing out an exasperated sigh. "No need to worry!"

She turned towards Jim as she opened her eyes. Her jaw was taut, her teeth chewing at the insides of her mouth, struggling to control her temper. Jim stood at an uneasy huddle, unable to lift his eyes from the sink. As his head hung further down onto his chest, Sarah caught a dull, golden glint at his earlobe. Her free hand shot out for it. 

"What is this, Jim? You got an earring? When did you get an earring?"

Jim shrugged her off, sliding his lower back along the sink as he moved away from her. "Last night," he muttered. "It's no big deal. It wasn't expensive."

He couldn't bring himself to look at the way her eyes seemed to mute, grow lifeless and confused and disappointed. He had seen it too many times. His hair, his boots, his grades, the way he talked. His solar surfer. He edged away, pulling off the apron. 

"Jim..."

Stopping, he gazed at her feet. Worn, cloth shoes with little silver buckles at the ankles, muffled under her creased, frayed skirt. "Mom," he said. "I don't know what to say. I can't say I'm sorry." He drew little circles with his index finger along the kitchen counter. Words and phrases kept forming in his head, apologies and reasons and excuses, but his mouth wouldn't work. His jaws had clamped shut. 

Sarah's hand rose. Her fingers flexed, once, in his direction. He was turning away from her again, pushing open the revolving doors and shuffling towards the stairs. Her throat contracted. 

"Jim," she murmured. "I just want you to be alright."

His answer, if he gave any, was lost in the bustle of customers and clinking glasses and food being devoured by hungry, unperturbed mouths. 

* * *

A light drizzle had picked up, the drops becoming heavier as Jim made his way towards the canyons. He flipped up the lapels of his jacket. Slung over his back, the surfer thudded against his spine. It was a comfortable, familiar weight. It had held out for two years, modified and enhanced and protected and cherished. Jim had traded odd bits and pieces of machinery from the Benbow with the Deuteriums, eventually gathering enough to acquire a solar battery pack. 

The rain began to fall in earnest, and Jim felt grateful for it. He needed time alone. He needed to put some wind behind his back. Knock away the thoughts spinning around his head. Knock away the image of his mother's eyes, of Doppler's disapproval, of those damnable police-bots and the whole lot of them. He didn't want to think about them. He just wanted to be left blessedly, wholly alone. Where he couldn't hurt anyone but himself. 

__

Maybe I'll crash and break an arm.

The thought almost made him laugh. A broken arm would be the last thing his mother would want to see. He shook his head and began to climb the rock wall. The surface was slippery, but he had done it so many times before that he could climb with his eyes closed. Pulling himself onto the lip, he gazed down. The rain wasn't too bad. It was the wind that worried him. It blew steadily from the north, but there was no telling if it would change course or burst out into tricky little gales. No solar sail that day, then. 

Jim flipped the surfer onto the ground, crouching to tighten the twin boosters down, checking the width and length for any chips or tears or imperfections. Satisfied at length, he placed one foot along the board's centre, slid the second towards the back pedals. With one last tug at his jacket, keeping it close about him, he eased his foot down on the pedal, gently. 

The surfer hummed, shivering beneath his feet. With a whirr and the faint smell of heated metal, the boosters propelled the surfer up. It hovered several inches from the ground, waiting. Jim felt the tension ease away from his body as he concentrated on keeping his balance, edging the surfer slowly towards the canyon's lip. He pushed back at his sodden bangs and looked up at the sky. Thick, cold drops ran down his face, trickling into his mouth. 

With one quick nudge of his foot, the surfer shot forward. Bending his knees, dipping, Jim steered it down towards the bottom of the canyon. He skirted along the rocky base, rising higher and higher as he turned each corner, using the momentum to ultimately break free from the canyon walls and into the open air. 

The thrill of that moment, when the surfer jumped from stone to air, never diminished. It sent a shiver up Jim's spine, his whole body seeming to dissolve and become one with the wind and the raindrops and the low, overhanging clouds. He brought his foot down on the pedal once more. The surfer picked up speed, spiralling up in a nearly vertical line. Gravity pushed down on Jim, holding him in place. A grin had begun to work its way along the corners of his mouth. 

With a swoop, he flipped the surfer feet over head. The ground blurred out below him, the clouds racing past above. He felt time slow down, the entire universe concentrated somewhere in the pit of his stomach, as he completed the flip and brought the surfer back into a sharp horizontal path. Weaving, he cut a path through the clouds. The rain beat at his face, but he didn't care. It was cold and real and it numbed his senses. 

The acrid smell of burning metal reached his nostrils. 

Jim's heart fell somewhere beside his stomach, a lump forming itself in his throat. _Not now. Come on. Not now. _Crouching, he looked back at the boosters. Sure enough, a little cloud of grey exhaust was beginning to weave out, broken into wispy pieces by the rain. Jim looked down and felt his heart contract. He was miles away from the ground. The fall would kill him. 

"Damn," he breathed. 

The boosters were still firing, although with lethargic, phlegmatic outbursts that sent tremors along the board and up Jim's legs. He was already beginning to drop. His mind was racing, clouding over as he stared, helpless, at the escaping grey smoke. A maddening desire to laugh began to build at his throat. He battled it down. He wasn't going to burst into pieces laughing like a maniac. He owed himself that at least. 

__

Mom. 

The thought hit him hard across the chest. It shook out the unreal, panicked thoughts of death and how it would feel once his body struck the ground. Thinning his lips, he jerked his body towards the right. The board responded, shuddering as it did so. At the sight, Jim felt a wild hope grasp his mind. He jerked to the right again, this time with greater force. The surfer complied. It glided towards the right, dipping as it went. 

Grunting with the effort, Jim continued to coax the surfer along, not daring to contemplate the thought that the boosters might give up completely at any moment. He could just see the canyon walls below him, coming into view from between a curtain of rain and hair. Jim put all his weight on pushing the surfer towards the protruding rock faces, frightened at the slow, unsteady pace with which the board responded. The sharp, nauseating stench of exhaust overpowered his nostrils. He was beginning to grow dizzy. 

He shook his head. The canyon was just below him. Twenty feet. Doppler had said something about people surviving thirty feet falls. Jim wondered if the doctor had ever thought of testing that knowledge out. He envisioned, for one blinding moment, a panel of canine astrophysicists, shaking their heads in pity. _No, dear boy, all it takes is four feet and you're as dead as you'll ever be._ With a panicked grunt, he twisted the board towards the right, pushing down, praying for an end to the entire ordeal. He almost looked forward to crashing. 

The crash came in more of a tumble. The tip of the board caught against the lip of the canyon and flipped Jim off. Still firing, the boosters continued their descent. Jim rolled to a stop in a haze of rain and mud and pumping adrenaline, fear zigzagging up his arms and legs. Scrambling up, he ran towards the edge. The surfer floated down in a peaceful, coughing cloud of exhaust. The boosters coughed out their last, and the surfer clattered to the ground. Unharmed. 

Jim sagged with relief against the edge, his arms dangling down. His mind had gone blank. He couldn't register anything but the fact that he was struggling to think, to figure out what had just happened. He was alive. He was unharmed. He gripped the rock under his hands and let out a loud, muffled shout of joy and rage and embarrassment and relief. 

It echoed back towards him and seemed to go on forever.

* * *

He sneaked back into his room through the roof, the wounded surfer strapped to his back. His arms were sore from the still residing adrenaline and fear, and from having climbed, hand over hand, up the Benbow's water pipes. The rain made everything slippery and treacherous, his feet giving way more than once, but it also offered a cover. With a grunt, he pushed open his window and allowed his body to drop onto the ground. 

Exhausted, he shrugged off the surfer, pushing it with his feet towards its usual spot under the bed. He fell on his knees beside it and peered blearily at the boosters. They were in pretty bad shape, the edges smoked black, but he was certain he could fix them. He was certain he could scavenge for new ones, if it came to that. He kissed his fingertips and pressed them against the board. 

"Don't worry, old girl," he whispered. "I won't let you die." 

Straightening, he allowed himself to flop down on his bed. He thought dimly about removing his clothes, but the thought was gone in a black haze that reached up to cloud his eyes and finally, mercifully, shut everything out. 

* * *

A crash came from outside, exploding across Jim's subconscious. He sat up with a yell and a thump and a curse as he struck his head against the bookcase above his bed. He rubbed his head with a silent _ouch_, then stared at himself. The covers were around his body, his boots beside the bed, socks rolled up inside. His pants hung over a chair, folded neatly. A tray with breakfast—porridge and sliced perps and mullard juice—had been set up on the night table. Jim rubbed his eyes and felt a smile grow on his lips. 

The crash came again, followed by a shout of dismay from Sarah. "Leave it alone, Delbert, please!"

The doctor's voice rose out from the din, muffled, as if he were speaking from inside a box. "No, no, Sarah. I have a stove just like this at home. I can fix it. Save time and money." A hiss and a tired, resigned clatter rang out. Several thumps followed it, and Doppler's voice was no longer muffled. It was chagrined.

"Um," he said. "Unless I puncture the main gas valve, in which case you'll need to _buy_ a new gas valve and..."

Jim had heard enough. Stuffing a perp into his mouth, he gulped down his mullard juice and climbed out of bed. Pants safely buckled, bangs mussed, and porridge bowl in his hands, he came down the stairs and peered into the kitchen. His mother's back was to him, and for a moment he felt as if he should just go back to his room. Her attention was centred fully on Doppler, who was on his hands and knees in front of the stove, sleeves rolled up and face smudged with carbon and flaking soot. Jim stepped quietly into the room and clambered onto a stool.

"Doppler, really," Sarah was saying. "I could've just called Mrs. Zaslawski. She's an excellent mechanic and she would've fixed this by supper."

Jim's lips twitched. Doppler looked downright mollified, his fingers trailing over the wrench he still held in his hands. Sarah reached out to pat his shoulder, murmuring soothing words and guiding the doctor to his feet. It was then that Doppler saw Jim. His eyes narrowed somewhat, but Jim was relieved to see that none of the anger from the day he had retrieved his surfer truly remained. The air still felt stiff between them, however. Jim coughed and looked down at his bare feet. 

"I trust you're feeling better," Doppler said. He began to unroll his sleeves, acting for all the world as if he weren't covered in soot and ashes, a few tendrils of hair coming loose from his usually impeccable ponytail.

"Just fine," Jim murmured. He looked up at Doppler and squared his shoulders. "I'm doing fine," he said, his voice clear and frank. "Thank you."

Doppler smiled, the gesture pushing away the remaining airs of misunderstanding between them. "You're very welcome, young Jim." 

Throwing on his jacket, he shot an uneasy glance at Sarah. "Well, er, I've just about done all the damage I can for one morning, now haven't I? I'd best order a large, expensive supper and make up for it once Mrs. Zaslawski has brought her expertise and care into the affair." 

Sarah kissed his cheek. "You were only trying to help, Delbert. I ask for nothing more."

As the doctor made his way outside, Sarah crossed her arms over her stomach. She leaned against the broken stove and gazed quietly at Jim. He shifted on the stool and pushed the remaining dregs of his porridge around. He knew he was expected to speak first. His jaw was threatening to bail out on him again. With an effort, he pushed a few words out.

"M'sorry, mom." 

Sarah nodded. He was expected to say more. 

"I'm sorry I got myself a ticket, and I'm sorry that I pierced my ear, and I'm sorry that I hurt you, and I'm sorry that I said I wasn't sorry, and—"

"That's enough, Jim," Sarah murmured. She opened up her arms. 

With a half-stumble and his bare feet slapping the cold, hearth floor, Jim fell into his mother's arms. He held her tightly and buried his face into her stomach. He heard himself murmur _I'm sorry _over and over, felt her hand as she stroked his hair. Her fingers came to rest against his earlobe, and his face grew hot. He drew away from her and bit his lip, his fingers rising up to trail over the gold hoop. 

"I'll take it off," he began.

Sarah shook her head, a look of resigned amusement on her face. "Don't. I kind of like it." She sighed, pushing away from the stove. "Besides, drilling holes in your ear is the least dangerous thing you could do. No, flying your surfer's what's going to be the end of me." 

At the growing look of uncertain alarm on his face, she chuckled. "Slow those horses down, young man. I never said you couldn't fly your surfer. I just want you to be careful." She reached out and lifted his chin, gently. "Will you promise me that...?"

Jim felt as if he was betraying her, but, at the same time, he meant every single word.

"I will, mom. I'll be careful." 

* * *

"Here's the deal," Jim said, patting the length of the surfer with a negotiating hand. "You keep from bailing out on me, and I'll give you a brand new coat of paint, plus a good, hot waxing. How's that sound?"

The twin boosters glinted in the faint, muted sunlight that streamed down through a low cover of clouds. Two words had been painted out on them, one for each booster, in bright red enamel. _Luck off_. Jim felt in the pit of his stomach that maybe the words would somehow work against him, jinx everything and still bring him crashing down. Still, he felt justified in tempting fate. He had survived several nasty spills till now. He could look another straight in the face with a bit of defiance. 

He stepped onto the board and ran a silent countdown in his head. A cold, biting wind had picked up, fall already pushing up against winter. Jim shifted his shoulders, savouring the tension he could feel mounting along his muscles. With a sharp intake of breath, his countdown reaching zero, he fired up the boosters. He hung, for a few minutes, above the ground, the boosters whirring faster and faster, raring to go. With two quick jabs of the pedal, body bent down and into the wind, he took off at full speed.

A shower of pebbles skittered out behind him, the rattling and humming of the surfer echoing along the canyon walls. With the wind nipping at his cheeks, his jacket fluttering out behind him, Jim manoeuvred the surfer along the base of the canyon, once again building up momentum by climbing ever higher along the rock wall. He cleared the lip in a dizzying streak of red melting into grey. A misty, intangible cold brushed against his skin, and he knew he had broken through the first layer of clouds. 

He hung in a world of milky white mist. He couldn't see a thing in front of him, and a strange mixture of panic and excitement shot up his spine. Everything was racing past him in a blur, as he guided the surfer onto a vertical position and continued to rise, higher and faster. The boosters rattled out behind him, friction humming along the length of the board. Battling the strain of gravity upon his body, Jim turned his head and shot the boosters a sharp glance. 

"No bailing out," he muttered at them. 

They coughed out, once, as if to spite him. He glared at them. The action, he knew, was peevish and foolhardy and pointless. He couldn't help but grin, though, as the boosters rattled out their last complaint and fired out again with renewed vigour. _Now that's more like it. _

In a blinding second of white mist and speed and blurred motion, Jim broke through the top cloud layer. Blue exploded into his eyes, bright and clear and immense. Looking up at it, Jim felt his chest swell. Every part of him seemed to be stretching out, dissolving, floating. The sky spread out above and below and beside him, swallowing him even as he could never truly reach it. His heartbeat slowed down, his lungs expanding as he took in deep, satisfied breaths. He felt, drank in, the feel of the wind as it pushed and slid and trailed against his face and his hair, an utter sense of weightlessness and nothingness settling down upon him. 

A sense of peace, of escape. 

With one slow, calculated movement, he shut off the engines. They whirred away into silence, the sense of empty sky rushing in to fill the void. For one dazzling moment, Jim couldn't feel himself. His body had disappeared, dissolved away into the sky. Closing his eyes, he spread out his arms. Slowly, sensation began to trickle back in, the wind roaring up against his ears as he began to free-fall. He could feel himself, dimly, going through the paces that would save him from a crash, from loosing control. His body responded to signals and movements he couldn't really remember giving it. His mind was completely clear, free of all worries and doubts and thoughts. 

He was falling. 

He was flying. 

Author's Note:

6 March 2003. Another so-called snowstorm whistled past New York City today, and here is the third and last chapter to this story. I hope you enjoyed it. I apologize to any of you that were a bit disappointed at how I didn't leave Jim as a sweet eight-year-old. I always sort of envisioned this story as snippets of Jim's evolution from a relatively carefree little boy to the sullen, troubled teenager we all know and love. That and an awful lot of solar surfing. 

I'm not sure if I've described the physics of solar surfing [e.g. sky diving or snow boarding] correctly, but I've based all descriptions on my own experiences on simulators [those wonderful machines where you strap in and spin upside down] and on my own, childhood-long love of flying. 

Thank you for all the reviews. They mean a great deal to me. 

© 3-5 March 2003 Team Bonet. _Treasure Planet _is © 2002 The Walt Disney Co. The characters of Jim and Sarah Hawkins are © 1881 Robert Louis Stevenson.


End file.
